


Head First

by boulevarddouble



Series: Scenes from a Shitshow [5]
Category: Professional Overwatch RPF
Genre: Anal Sex, M/M, Makeup Sex, Quarantine Life, Requited Unrequited Love, Too many roommates, cute date ideas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-02-26 17:08:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,503
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23544079
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boulevarddouble/pseuds/boulevarddouble
Summary: "Huh. I thought you guys were like a… thing."Jack grabs the last remaining orange and wishes for death. "We're not."
Relationships: JAKE | Jacob Lyon/Jaws | Jack Wright
Series: Scenes from a Shitshow [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1663579
Comments: 5
Kudos: 7





	Head First

"What's gotten into Jake today?" Kurt asks as Jack's filling up his water bottle at the sink. "He was like, pounding on my door to borrow some shit earlier." He's making a brunch of packaged ramen. Supplies in the house are running low.

"Couldn't tell you," Jack answers. He's proud of himself for keeping his voice neutral.

"Huh. I thought you guys were like a… thing."

Jack grabs the last remaining orange and wishes for death. "We're not." That one comes out clipped.

Kurt holds up his hands in surrender. "Sorry. He's just being weird." 

Instead of answering, Jack takes a big drink of water and shrugs, heading back upstairs. Jake is the last thing he wants to think about, though he knows his brain is going to keep picking at this scab. It doesn't help that they're all stuck at the house, that it's cold and rainy. He left fucking Britain for a fucking reason. 

_I bet he has a new girlfriend,_ his brain whispers. 

Jack throws himself into his chair, teeth grinding before he even starts his first match. He can't stream, the internet's fucked, but he can at least play. His headphones feel too heavy, his skin feels too tight, and Ana's fucking banned. Everything's coming up Jaws. 

He could have a girlfriend, that's the thing. They haven't really talked since Jake left for D.C. He could have met someone and Jack wouldn't know, because he doesn't want to know, because he wants to know way too much.

\----------

The knock on the door is soft, and if he hadn't just thrown his headset down he probably wouldn't have heard it.

Jake's on the other side in joggers and a soft green jumper. His hair is longer than he likes, curling down over his forehead. He looks just as good as always and Jack, with circles under his eyes and jaw tight, hates him a little bit.

"Hey," he says.

"Hey," Jack mimics. His American accent is atrocious.

Jake winces, running a hand through his too long hair. "Can I show you something?"

"I don't want to see your dick, dude."

"It's not my dick, dude" Jake replies, mocking. His British accent is worse. "I'm being serious."

Jack sucks in a breath. He's a massive fucking idiot. Actually stupid. He leans against the doorframe and shrugs. "I guess."

Jake's whole face lights up. "Come on." He grabs his hand like it's nothing, and Jack hates himself more for how it fizzes through his stomach. They don't go far—just down the hallway to Jake's room. "I need you to close your eyes."

"What? No."

"Please?" Jake is as earnest as he's ever seen him. 

His heart pounds. He closes his eyes. "You know I don't like surprise parties, right? It's not even my birthday."

"Noted." There's the soft click of the door opening, and a tug on his arm as he's pulled forward into the room. Hands grip his shoulders as Jake puts him where he wants him. His traitor body breaks out in goosebumps. Then, there's nothing but cool air as Jake leaves to shut the door behind them. 

"Jake, I swear…"

"Open! Open! You can open your eyes."

At first glance it's just Jake's room. Pretentious poster. Queen-sized bed. But he's folded up his streaming screen and there's a blanket spread on the floor with boxes of Chinese takeout sitting in the middle. Jake walks over to his computer and clicks the mouse and monitors—at least three plus his tv—blink to life, some sort of forest background. Jack swallows hard. 

"What is this?"

"It's, uh, a picnic." Jack risks a glance at Jake, who is staring resolutely at the blanket. "Since I can't take you out right now."

"Take me out?" He's not proud of how his voice squeaks.

Jake sits down and starts opening containers. "I got all your favorites, or at least," he has the good grace to blush, "I kind of assumed they were. The basil chicken's mine, though."

His body moves before his mind can catch up, legs folding up under him as he sits on the blanket. If he's honest, his brain is still back in his room, playing sub-par Overwatch. He breaks his chopsticks on autopilot. "You got my favorite… Is this a date?"

Jake's chopsticks pause in midair. "Um."

"What the fuck." It might take him a minute to process things, but he's here now. "Are you serious? Now?"

Jake sets his chopsticks down carefully, and when he looks up at him, he's got his try-hard face on. Jack shivers despite his outrage. 

"I'd like it to be a date. Now. But only if you want it to be."

Jack's clutching his own chopsticks so hard he hears one of them crack. "But... you don't… You didn't even want to be seen with me just a week ago."

That catches Try-Hard Jake off guard. "What?"

"You were flirting with that blonde girl and you just…" he waves his broken chopstick, "left."

If Jack wasn't spending all his energy keeping from bursting out of his skin, he'd laugh at the series of expressions that cross Jake's face; he looks like a first-year mime. 

"Wait, is that, is that why you've been avoiding me? For a week?" Jake scrubs his face with his hands. It's a long enough silence that Jack starts to feel stupid. He shoves a container of rice away so he can get up, but a hand on his knee stops him.

"Sorry, I'm sorry." Jake looks him in the eye. "I'm. Sorry. God, my mom is going to be... I'm sorry, I just, I just don't like bars. And I know, like, that's lame or whatever," he huffs out a laugh, "Gamer stereotype, I guess. But yeah, I'd rather be at home if it's not _for_ work, you know?"

He opens his mouth, shuts it again, and finally, after thirty seconds of unattractive fish gaping, says, "You were flirting. And you left."

Jake knee-walks over, knocking into something. Jack can smell it seeping into the blanket, but all he can see is Jake, earnest Jake, try-hard Jake, Jake dark-eyed and smiling sheepishly. 

"I'm sorry I left without telling you. You looked like you were having a good time, and I didn't want to bring you down."

"I wasn't," Jack whispers.

"I'm sorry."

His heart thuds so hard against his ribs he's sure they're going to crack. "You were flirting."

Jake's fingers brush his knee, hesitant. "She was flirting with me but," he shakes his head, breaking eye contact and letting him breathe, "I don't like girls, Jack."

"Oh." 

"Oh." The little smirk is back.

Irritation curls through his stomach. It's not irritation alone, though. Anticipation. Friction. Attraction. He's watching that bottle spin around and around and around. "You're an arsehole."

"Yeah. Can I kiss you?"

Jack's chin barely nods before Jake's hand is curling around the back of his neck and pulling him in. It hasn't even been that long, days he can count on fingers, and yet he's ravenous for him. His fingers tangle in Jake's soft shirt, his too-long hair, trying to get even closer. A whine escapes before he can stop it when Jake finally pulls away. He'd be embarrassed if Jake wasn't panting, too. 

"Sorry, I really am just trying to take you on a date," he gestures blindly at the food beside them. "Not like… trying to get lucky."

Jack looks at the mushu pork and garlic chicken, steam rising from the rapidly cooling containers. He looks back at the man in front of him, hair already a mess, cheeks flushed. Something soft and warm and riding the edge of wildly dangerous surges in his chest. 

"Who says we can't have it all?" It's more of a tackle than a kiss, but he can feel Jake smiling against his mouth. He's half giddy, half desperate, groaning as Jake's hand wraps around his hip too tightly, laughing when their teeth clack together. He's practically riding Jake's thigh, trying to get closer and closer, savoring the press of Jake's hardness against his own. His fingers slip under Jake's jumper but it's not nearly enough.

"Off, off, off," he demands, pulling at the hem. "Naked. Now."

Jake laughs, but lets him drag the shirt over his head. "Does this mean you _do_ want to see my dick?"

"Fuck off." Jack drags himself to his feet to shed his own clothes and rummage for the lube in Jake's nightstand. When he turns around, Jake's stretched out on the blanket, long and lean and so beautiful it hurts. The condom hits Jake square in the stomach. "Put that on."

Jake's eyebrows fly up, but he complies, hurrying as Jack crawls up his body. They haven't done this a lot, but it's all Jack can think about. Wants to feel him everywhere, wants Jake to lose his mind just as badly as he's lost his. He lets Jake pull him into another kiss, but sits up before he can get lost in it, uncapping the lube and drizzling some on his fingers. Jake watches him with an intensity that makes him preen. It's uncomfortable working the first finger in, it always is, but it's made better by the way Jake's mouth drops open.

"Fuck. That's so hot."

Sparks skitter up his skin from where Jake's fingers dig into his thigh. "Did you miss me?"

"Yeah," Jake breathes. 

"Why?" It's heady, having his full attention. He's not a teenager, hasn't been for too many years, but it feels like it, the way he's already desperately hard. The second finger slips in easier, the stretch making him bite his lip.

"What?" Jake's eyes flick up, confused, his grip tighter, if possible.

"What did you miss about me?"

"I, uh," Jake swallows hard, trying to concentrate and not focus on Jack's fingers disappearing into his body and the press of his thighs against his hip. "Your eyes." 

He pulls his fingers out, grabbing more lube. Jake groans as Jack coats his cock. "And?"

"Your tattoos."

"You like my tattoos." He lines up, a slippery, delicious torture. He'll have bruises on his thighs for days.

"Yeah." Jake's still underneath him, clearly holding himself back, letting Jack run the show. "And your sarcasm."

"Fuck." It hurts as Jake's cock slides inside, he knows he could have prepped better, but he breathes through it. It's the kind of pain that lights up every nerve in his body, the kind that makes him feel alive. Jake's eyes are squeezed shut. Jack leans down and presses a kiss to his slack mouth. "Hey."

Those dark eyes fly open and Jack feels a bit like he's drowning. "Hey," Jake whispers, smile creeping back into place. It makes Jack grin, too, entirely too big to be anything but dopey, but he can't help it.

Until Jake's hips twitch and he gasps. "Cheeky fucker."

Jake just turns his head to the side and bites at the forearm there, right at the base of his tattoo. Jack's chuckle catches in his throat as he starts to move. Just a roll of the hips and he's already remembering why he likes this so much. He's full in exactly the right ways, and Jake is beautiful below him, gazing up like Jack is made of magic.

As he sits up and begins to ride him in earnest, he realizes they aren't just fucking. The thought makes his rhythm stutter and his heart stop beating. He can barely breathe.

"Please." Jake's voice is just this side of begging. It sends a jolt of electricity up his spine, enough to get him nearly to the edge all by itself.

"Yeah, baby, what do you need?"

"Fuck," he says in lieu of an answer. He clutches Jack's hips and meets him stroke for stroke. Jack's on fire everywhere they touch. "I'm close."

"Me too." He snakes a hand between them to pull on his cock. There's no rhythm to it, both just trying to push each other to that peak.

"Jack," Jake groans, "kiss me."

"God, yes." It takes everything he has not to just collapse on him. It's not even a good kiss, sloppy and almost painful, but he devours every panting moan. He can feel it, Jake locking up as he comes, his face tight with pleasure. His hand flies over his own cock. "Fuck, babe, fuck."

Jake kisses his jaw as he comes back to himself. "Let me help." But it barely takes the brush of those strong, slim fingers joining his before Jack is spilling all over their hands. 

He does let himself collapse then, wincing as Jake slips out of him. There's an awkward moment as Jack tries to cling to him as Jake hurries to tie off the condom and toss it in the direction of the trash. He just can't do anything but bury his face in Jake's neck because he can't handle how stupid his own face looks. 

Jake's hand—the clean one—strokes lightly across his back. "Fuck," he sounds out of breath still, "that was…"

"You liked that, did you?" Jack tries to smirk, but there's no way it's anything resembling smug. 

Jake just smiles back, threading their gross fingers together and kissing every one of Jack's knuckles. "I like you."

It's too much. Jack is full of helium, floating like an over-full mylar balloon. If he doesn't kiss him again, he's going to burst. 

But he can, so he does.

\----------

The microwave hums as they reheat chinese containers one by one. Jake has him pinned against the counter, and they lazily make out a minute at a time.

"I _knew_ you were fucking," Kurt yells. He beelines to the fridge and grabs a White Claw.

Jack blushes as Jake pushes off him. "Caught us," he says, not even a little ashamed. 

"Who's fucking?" Wyatt yells from the living room.

"Jack and Jake!"

"What?" Bren wanders in. He squints at the two of them. "What's it like to fuck your doppleganger?"

Jack flips him off. Custa strolls up behind the island, leaning on it and stealing Kurt's unopened White Claw. "I was wondering when you crazy kids would figure it out."

"Ok, seriously, ground rules for roommate fucking," Bren begins. "Number 1, no shagging in the kitchen."

"We weren't shagging in the kitchen," Jack says. Jake just laughs.

Bren magnanimously accepts the can that Kurt slides to him. "See to it you don't. For that matter, no fucking in any public spaces. The kitchen, the living room, the shared bathroom…"

"Oh, they've definitely fucked in the bathroom," Wyatt says, joining the crowd.

Mercifully, the microwave beeps. Jack shoves a plate into Jakes hands and starts pushing him out of the kitchen to the stairs. 

"Oh, absolutely," Custa agrees.

Jake is trying not to die from laughter and Jack is trying to just not die as they stumble up the stairs. Bren's yell echoes through the whole house. 

"No fucking in the bathroom! I mean it!"

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this and I was like "hah! finally done with this crack ship" but then my brain was like "unless..." so I guess that's where I'm at these days. 
> 
> Massive thank yous to K for the Beta and L for the cheerleading. Couldn't get through this without you. Title from Ellie Goulding's Starry Eyed, because I listened to Lights for about 3 hours straight to finish this, like it was 2009 or something.


End file.
